Page 58 of Made

The dark countryside sped past like a blur in Romeo’s headlights. I was asleep in minutes.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Bird Watch

Vidar’s connections formed a network that reached far and wide across dimensions. Since he needn’t rely solely on informants of the two-legged variety, he knew he wouldn’t have much trouble learning Niall’s whereabouts. He bided his time, knowing that soon after his return to Eire, Niall would seek out a “public” place to cause mischief. Maybe even in the human dimension.Gods forbid.Because, to the shame of his family, the prince could certainly wreak a memorable havoc when he chose.

The storied brothers of Scotia had sent him back to Eire, probably thinking Niall was a better kid. They were wrong. But the task they’d been assigned was to keep him for a year and try to cuff some sense into him, not to evaluate the results. It hadn’t been difficult. There was little Niall could do to upset either the brothers or their lifestyle. If he annoyed them or stepped out of line, they’d amuse themselves with various bizarre punishments.

Sometimes, punishment took the form of ridicule. For many young men, that might be the worst form of discipline. But Niall didn’t really care if he was sent to face a corner like a child, or forced to dance a tabletop jig in a skirt, or wait tables like a barmaid while having his butt pinched by thick fingers. The younger Irish prince simply wanted his way and didn’t mind being laughed at so long as he attained whatever goal was presently in his sights. Any and all nuisances blocking the path to his target were seen as inconveniences and not as deterrents. Had his desires been for things or attributes that were desirable, his commitment and persistence would even be thought admirable.

With a thought, Vidar dressed himself in a costume of traditional thick woolens so as to blend in and appear at home in the Eire countryside. While Irish fae tend to prefer colorful clothing soaked in dye long enough to absorb maximum hue, he wore a muted salmon color tunic with tan leggings and roughout boots. Though he was never cold, he wore a vest over the tunic because it was thought farm-fashionable at the time.

The weather in mid-Winter mimicked that of Ireland in the human dimension, warmed by surrounding ocean currents, on a latitude south of Scandinavia, one such as he might even call the December temps balmy.

Though Vidar was demigod of the Northern hunt, he could communicate with any species, anywhere, in any dimension. It was a very handy talent. He arrived on a hillside near the royal seat, knowing ahead of time what he was after. A murder of crows. As everyone knows, when you want information, ask a crow. Birds are, without question, the best of spies. He’d walked for less than a quarter hour before finding a few crows perched in a leafless oak.

Having first looked around to make sure no one overheard his conversation, he said, “Which of you is known for gossip?”

At first, the crows cawed at him and each other. After all, they weren’t invited to converse every day, but the sound quickly resolved to a speech that only he could understand.

“Aye. ‘Twould be meself,” said a crow sitting on one of the lower branches.

“Do you know of a fae prince named Niall?”

The crow hopped to an even lower branch so as to get a better look at the questioner. He angled his head to the side and jerked his neck, first this way, then that.

“Aye. I know ‘im. Though there’s not a whit to care for ‘im if ye ask me.”

“I am asking you. What’s your name?”

“Carnigal. ’Tis Carnigal.”

“Hmmm. A good name.” The bird preened, clearly pleased by the compliment. “The lad has a reputation for being mean-spirited. Nonetheless, I need a location. Might you know where I’d be likely to find him on this fine winter’s night?”

“Ah.” The bird sniggered, which sound would probably be disconcerting to anyone but Vidar. “He likes his drink, he does. Skulks about taverns where peoples sing ugly songs with ugly voices.”

“So, you’re an educated bird.” Vidar smiled. “Skulks is a fine word. Likes to sing, does he?”

Carnigal ruffled his feathers. “Nay. Nay. The prince sits alone by the fire and watches. He chooses the taverns that are also inns because he does no’ care for sleepin’ in the castle that is his home.”

Vidar nodded, considering the implications of that. “Which taverns?”

“What reward will ye offer for me trouble then?”

“I’ll not leave you bald, without a fine feather coat, and unable to fly.”

At that, the bird hopped three inches and cawed angrily, feathers standing straight up. “No need to be unkind to Carnigal. No need. No need.”

Vidar laughed. “I’ll not be unkind, Carnigal. But I do require respect. What would you like in exchange for the information I seek?”

The bird again angled his head and looked Vidar over in jerky movements, seemingly thinking about it. Finally, he said, “I want to be king of birds.”

At that, the crows still perched in the oak, observers of the dialogue, set up a cacophonous objection.

Vidar heard a few other species in nearby trees join the ruckus. He held up his hand to stop the noise that would be discordant to all but crows and said, “I’ll not be making you king of birds, Carnigal. But I will make one of your chicks king. A lifetime appointment.”

If a bird could smile, Carnigal would’ve shown Vidar his pleasure visibly. Instead, he briefly bowed and said, “Acceptable. Carnigal thanks His Grace. O’Malley’s in Canshee, Fare Thee Well in Ballyntubber, and The Knight’s Goose in Foulkesmill.”

Though he didn’t show it, Vidar was impressed with the bird’s memory and made a mental note to use him as a potential resource.

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